Hand Gestures and Blessings

I was doing some more bawling today while running thru Borghese Park. First, this park is magical. Second, the weather is great here with much sun and warmth. Third, I am alive and my core family unit is well and prospering each day. There is much to be thankful for I think to myself while hearing the pattern of my feet beneath me. The pounding rhythm falls under the radio DJ's voice who is going on about Italian music in my earphones.

I made arrangements to see Il Papa this week. (In this photo he is the speck of white from afar.) I have been waiting to see him for weeks. The 'General Session' that I attended, I thought would include me and about thirty other individuals. Instead it was me and about 500 individuals. But it was a very special experience with persons from various Nations recognized, standing up and even singing to Il Papa. After each Nationality was introduced, Il Papa hand gestured to the standing group with their flags and hands waving. He then said something in their native language while reading from a script. He waved again to acknowlege and to bless. And while I tried to get in direct line with these blessing gestures coming across 400 persons or more (to me in the back of the room) I was reminded of my 102 year old grandmother who has the Pope hand gesture down and frequently uses it to address her fans while celebrating her birthday. A celebration that lasts all year.

At the end of the 'General Session,' that lasted around an hour and a half, we were asked to get out items we wanted Il Papa to bless. We said a few words of prayer in unison after which Il Papa gestured to us, again, blessing us and our loved ones. I grinned and look up to the ceiling. (Because when you look up, bawling tears of joy tears don't fall out of your eyes. A little trick I've learned...)

I am also happy that yet another nightmare of being locked in a bathroom is over. Yes, the ceremony with Il Papa lasted approximately 1.5hours but for me a little less as I found myself, once again, locked in a toilette hell in the auditorium's restroom. This is no coincidence I think as I do not believe in coincidences. It is just sheer madness. I am trapped for so long that finally a woman on the outside of the stall is trying to help me by pulling on the door. The walls begin to close in on me. Will I faint? NO, there is no time! I must get free! I continue to pull and turn the knob. This way, that way with the knob... nothing happens. After about 7minutes (which felt like three days) the woman said she was going to get a Carabinieri to help. I am all for this! I am eager for the help as well as the fact that most Carabinieri look like Versace models.

While awaiting my handsome help, I continue to pull and pull on the door. For no particular reason (and certainly not because of anything I have done differently) the door releases. I mention, in Italian, how afraid I was during this experience to the ladies in the bathroom who are waiting their turn to enter my watercloset jail. I wash my hands and vow never, never, never to lock another bathroom door in this country. I'd rather have someone just walk in on me by accident, I think, than go thru this yet again! Uncanny.

The other day I was trying to decide where to have a nice leisurely Sunday lunch. I wandered through a tranquil neighborhood near the Vatican and got lost within the cobblestone streets. I then started to look for restaurants that were crowded with natives. I found one and sat down. I ordered wine and rabbit, coniglio. After about 30minutes a group of three sat down next to me in what (in America) would be sitting directly at your table but in Italy is, 'the next table over.'

Because of the close proximity the four of us began to parliamo. Five hours later...yes, cinque ore dopo. I was saying goodbye to my new friends and thanking them for such a lovely time. 'Johnny' native Roman and his wife from Rio, Gloria, and their friend Luc from France all spoke very good Italian. Johnny who looked like Marcello Mastroianni, I was sad to learn, was 'married' to Gloria. Actually 'married' seems to be a relative term in Italy from what I have observed. Johnny was married for years then divorced...'divorced' can also mean separated. He then gave Gloria a very nice Tiffany ring, which I spotting immediately and commented on as she did with my Tiffany ring which is several notches below hers in price. Still our Tiffany spirits were one as she recounted Johnny's proposal which included that you say you're the wife and wear a ring but no official ceremony takes place. Luc, I learn, is gay and it appears after further discussion that we are looking for the same qualities in a man. We laugh and I am happy I can keep up with the conversation in Italian as well as interject frequently.

The five hours fly by and are very interesting. Johnny is a lawyer in town. Gloria is involved in historic restoration. Luc runs his own boutique and is also an Architect. They call the restaurant owner on the phone and invite him to join us. Apparently, they are regulars to the restaurant. The owner, Paulo, is happy to meet the Americana, he says, but not today. Today he is sick at home just a few flats away. Luc brings his own wine from his boutique (neighboring next door) and we sip on dessert liquor and smoke cigarettes after our four hour long, multiple course meal. I choke on my cig and think European thoughts. What would Sofia Loren do right about now?...she would probably not squint and hold back a cough. I stop squinting and swallow my impending cough. 'Marcello' ignores the spacial rules we Americans prefer. He is practically nose to nose with me as he talks. Smoke circles his face and it's like a 1950's movie. Of all the gin joints in all the world...(or something like that runs through my head)... I change it up a bit and think, of all the hidden Italian restaurant gems in this town you had to end up next to me and be 'married.' Gloria is taking our space, or lack their, of in stride as Johnny and I discuss Rome, Rio, Family, Amore. Italian converstions eventually circle around to amore. It's a favorite topic. I like Gloria. She is smart and a go-getter and confident and good with people and I think...good fortune for her to have Johnny as her 'husband.' Some day my Marcello will arrive. But today...is not that day and this is not my Marcello.

They are all very special people and how great it was to spend an afternoon with them. That was my good fortune for the day. This will always be a fond memory for me.

You know those times when you're laughing so hard that you cannot even speak? Well, I'm happy to report that I had one of those experiences yesterday at my work. Yes, I am working Roman now. (free labor internship) This experience has been phenomenal for my language skills and I have really, really enjoyed the experience. I have worked, the last two weeks, for an Architectural Firm here in the city helping three Architects translate their marketing pieces. The firm designs and builds homes with only ecofriendly, natural materials and this is, in and of itself, very interesting to learn more about. But I digress...so while working yesterday I am listening to a coworker complain on the phone about unsatisfactory graphic work. She frequently says, 'scusa.' The Italians say 'excuse me' even when they are 'arguing.'

As she and I later recalled the conversation we were laughing uproariously about certain aspects of the graphics that were needing desperate change. As I recalled some of my coworker's better arguments and statements...we were giggling away, and so much so, that I could barely continue talking. It was only later, as I was walking home, that I again giggled and reminded myself that I had had this experience completely in Italian. A very promising milestone.

Why did I think about Sofia Loren during my five hour lunch? Well interesting you should inquire. I thought of her because a few days before, I was standing on the street corner near a hotel and a limo pulled up next to me at the hotel entrance. As I waited for the light to change

and to cross the street, the limo door opened and out stepped Sofia. We were about a foot away from one another and I recalled a quote of her's I read in a restaurant not long ago. She said, 'Everything you see, I owe to spaghetti.' Spaghetti has treated her well I thought as she hustled with her PR people through the hotel doorway. I wondered at the time what my statement would be as Polizia encouraged an emerging crowd to move on...

I think my statement might be:

'Everything you see, I owe to being a product of the free and the brave.'

Ciao tutti! A dopo!

'They're the people that you meet when your walking down the street...they're the people that you meet each day.'

Just like the, 'People In Your Neighborhood Lyrics' from Sesame Street so are these days in Rome for me. There are many people to meet here in Rome as everyone, I find, is very friendly. On a Friday night the odds of meeting people naturally increase.

There is Angelo who makes his own wine. Terre Rubre, Cesanese di Olevano Romano. He lives outside of Rome where he has a vineyard. He tells me about a wine he has at a nearby wine bar that is two years old and exceptional. It is worth the walk to go there and sample it. I am to meet with Marco when I arrive and tell him Angelo has sent me.

I sampled another wine he had at a nearby restaurant last week (2006). It was strong I tell him but I liked it. He tells me he already knew I made this purchase because Roberto (who owns the restaurant) told him La Americana bionda was in the other day.

Angelo introduces me to GiamPiero who is his avvocato. (Lawyer) GiamPiero tells me how much he loves Coca Cola as if I have something to do with the product's success. I agree it's good and refreshing with lots of ice and/or served really, really cold.

I also meet Frederico who is from Venice and in town for a convention of entrepreneurs. He is in the ceramic business selling products all over the world, including NYC and San Francisco to companies like Crate and Barrel and Pier 1 Imports. He thinks I am Italian and immediately speaks rapidly about his work and travels. I make out about 70% of what is said and enjoy his enthusiasm.

I talk chocolates with Maria. She is from Germania and happens to love chocolate she tells me. She knows many languages and has what another friend of mine, calls 'rossa menapausa.' (bright red hair)

The creator of the phrase 'rossa menapausa' is Alessandro. He is a fiesty 50 something hustler who represents the school in which I study. 'Rossa menapausa' he explains, is his term for a woman who is older who wears bright red hair dye. In addition to being a philosopher and comedian, Alessandro knows a lot of people in the city and is forever in 'sales mode.' We tour around town in his Mercedes as I try my hand at interviewing for internships. He's quick to point out his vehicle is nice but he feels he would prefer a smaller car now. What kind of a car do I drive he asks me. When I tell him it's a Honda he's not familiar with the name. I mention it's similar to the Toyotas I see on the street here. He scoffs at this inferior product. Most italians drive BMW's (pronounced here B, M, Voo) Mercedes, Audi's or motorinos. (vespas/motorcycles)

My first interview goes well and I have molto acqua and cappucini during it. Once in the car I am regretting this decision as traffic is thick and there is no bagno in site. Next stop an interview with two impressive women who are architects. Here we talk skiing and Aspen, mostly, during this meeting. Third stop, hot milk drinks with our next interviewing victim. This gentleman runs a promotions company and appears to heavily promote naked women sitting on limos. I look at Alessandro like... Really?... And send him a telepathic message across the room of - 'Let's finish our latte calda and andiamo.'

Next up, interviewing with an Editor of a magazine. Our day has been long and this interview is taking place at 8pm. The men talk politics while I try to interject questions I have about the magazine. How many writers are on staff? Do they work from home? What is the workload like? How many stories a month, for example, would be required? These questions are answered but each time the conversation goes back to politics and in particular, Signore Berlusconi. Alessandro finally mentions he's ready for bed and I take this as a sign that 'the interview' is over.

Then there is Roberto. He works at a coffee shop near my school. He tells me that he has always wanted to be a barista since he was a small boy. He is good at what he does making it look easy to wait on six or seven persons, getting them sandwiches, coffee, juice, and other assorted drinks all at the same time. He's distingiushed looking with graying hair, slight build, tan skin, glasses. The kind of glasses that make anyone look intelligent. I vow to find out where he bought them and get myself a pair.

Next up...Cesare. Sure I know the name. I'm sure you do as well. But what if it's said to you like this, 'Buon giorno...mio nome e Chesaraaa.' (long emphasis on A at end and 'ch' at beginning.) Would you maybe say, 'Ciao Chesaraaa, tuo nome e interessante. Che e significa?' (Your name is interesting, what is the significance?) To which the reply is, 'Cesare, Cesare, certo Cesare!...cosi la citta!' (Cesare, Cesare, of course Cesare...of the city.) Oh...the light finally goes off in my head. This man's name is Cesare. Yes, I have heard of it I reply.

After these awkward beginnings, I learn that Cesare works in Public Relations in the city. He speaks no English, or so he tells me. Would I like to take a walk to Piazza di Spagna with him? I tell him fine, as I know it's not far and the weather is nice. During our walk Cesare shows me famous restaurants like Due Ladroni. ('Two Thieves') I make a mental note to return. He also shows me some fine antique shops and asks me if I like 'antiquing.' Not so much I reply but add that I enjoy the information he's provided me on the subject. Cesare is older and works here part of the week and commutes to his home in Bologna part of the week. I find him most interesting and think of my grandmother as he resembles Omar Sharif, her favorite.

Then there is Ursula. With wild curly hair she is a tornato spinning thru school halls with fury. I wish I had her hair, I tell her. She wishes she had mine. She prefers straight hair to wild curls. I say...no way...the wild curls are great. She bikes to work and has a slim figure though is probably one of these women who can eat anything and never get heavy regardless of how she commutes. I admire her style. Her fashion sense is great and I memorize her clothing combos, daily.

Hello Fabrizio. Fabrizio was born in Rome. He tells me this is different than just being Italian. It is special. I nod in agreement. Seems true. I heard this in Venice too when the Venetians said this same thing. Fabrizio is hyper active and sharp as a tack. He knows some Chinese, Japanese, English, Spanish, Swedish and Italian and he interchanges these languages when talking with people without hesistation. He has a quick wit and a comment for just about everything. He is in constant observation mode. I laugh and laugh while he reports on everyone around us and gives me tips on trying tiramisu fragola. (strawberry tiramisu) It's much better than the regular kind, he seriously informs, but unfortunately it's only properly made by his sister. So I will have to wait until she makes another one.

Ciao Alessandra, who shows me her new posture enhancing shoes. These are shoes I have seen before and thought they were just 'Euro Weird.' Now I learn they are rounded at the bottom on purpose and are quite popular. They are designed to help with your mosture as you walk or stand. People experiencing back problems or other ailments apparently swear by them. So I find out more...

The shoes are designed for the whole body, from neck to foot. They are based on the Masai Warriors and their ability to walk long distances in bare feet without discomfort. The rounded edges help with strengthening calf and buttocks muscles as an added bonus, I learn. Alessandra is on her feet a lot and has experienced knee problems previously. With her new MBT shoes she's loving the difference. She tells me where I can purchase a pair nearby. I decide to think more on this and pay her 14euros for a small piece of bufalo and five sardine strips, she calls filets, in her sushi like creations. I am getting ripped off I think on the food but the company was worth the experience. I bid Alessandra 'Arrivederci' knowing I will not be returning to her restaurant but may see her again walking briskly through town in her MBT's. (Masai Barefoot Technology)

Ciao tutti! A domani.

Yesterday night I tried working in a well known restaurant near the Vatican. The owners, upon hearing that I am a writer in America, were concerned I might let their behind the scenes secrets slip. So I will not devulge the name of said restaurant but will say that it is within walking distance to the crowds that flood St. Peter's Basilica and is therefore frequented by many locals and tourists who wonder in.

Repeatedly, last night, I heard...buono! buono! The food here is exceptional and many persons feel this way. I, in turn, was frequently saying 'ecco qua.' A phrase used when presenting plates and delivering dishes to patrons. Translated it means, 'here, here' and would be in the States more like 'here, you go...here it is.'

When I entered the underground establishment, it was just myself and one another man at the bar waiting for our shift to begin. Salvatore seemed calmo while washing bar glasses. I asked where I could put my purse and bag and he showed me a back room that resembled a men's lockerroom. Shortly, thereafter, others arrived. Like Evano, who explained to me while introducing himself that if I called him Ivano, 'he would kill me.' I initially surmised Evano was still a hyper type at the age of 48 but eventually found common ground with him. I looked like a California girl he quickly added and he'd like to take me out. He was familiar with America, he continued, and was an entrepreneur doing this job on the side. Infact, many seem to be doing this job on the side. Stefano then arrived, to apparently mimick those around him but not to work. I did not see him do anything other than joke with coworkers, eat, smoke and watch calcio (soccer) on the TV. Later I learned he is an actor. He consistently made fun of Marcello who is referred to as Hannibal Lecter/George Clooney. He is Direttore and we know this because he is the only one wearing a tie. The Hannibal part comes from, I later learn, the fact that Marcello sports almost no upper teeth. He is friendly and acts the Casanova role as do a few others. The kitchen staff then began to filter in Antonio and Antonio, (grande e piccolo) Giovanni and Pepe. Throughout the course of the evening, I see this foursome transform blank white plates into beautiful straccetti, pizza and pasta dishes and soups. Fortunately by this time, the staff has already eaten so I am not hungry when delivering this artistry of food.

Seems the customary protocol, when everyone has arrived for their shift, is to sit down for a meal. When we do, I count ten men and me at the table. A bit too much testoterone, I think, but am determined to learn a thing or two this evening and put this notion aside. While we eat, I join others in drinking wine, reading the paper and socializing about calcio games (soccer) they've bet on that evening. We dine at a large table and the talking back and forth is good for my language skills. I am corrected often but everyone seems genuinely interested in helping me to learn to speak properly. This atmosphere helps me to better commit corrections to memory as we continue our feast of pasta, sausage and vino.

During 'our dinner' I learn that Evano loves America and thinks all our holidays fall on Mondays. I chime in with, Thanksgiving always falls on a Thursday. He switches gears to tell those interested about American turkey and fixins'. His arms encompass a large circumference of space as he tells the other men how big our turkeys are on this holiday. It appears to me Evano has been eating turkey the size of five turkeys put together wherever he has been enjoying Thanksgiving. But I laugh because often the Italians like to exaggerate and I find this fun. Makes for good storytelling.

I also learn that, in general, men feel nuns are bad luck. I compare them to a black cat walking in front of you...and they confirm...yes, it is like this...only worse! The men, they elaborate, have to cup their private parts when seeing or crossing by a nun. The luck is this bad. The younger men and I laugh at this while the older men wait to see how I will respond to such information. Then they too join in with laughter.

I also learn, fingers held together and pointed upward is a gesture that means - wait. When moved about this gesture takes on a whole new meaning. I believe it means to question something, if my translation serves me. In addition, I learn that brushing ones chin with ones fingers means...you don't care. An example I am giving is - A man says to his wife. I am going tonight with a very lovely, young girl. The wife gestures- (fingers to chin) I don't care. This could come in handy I think and try to use it but ironically find at no point that I do not care about something enough to try it out. I am disappointed. Maybe tomorrow, I think, something will present itself where I can use the gesture.

Then it's time for my head to be on the chopping block. I can feel the atmosphere for pranks building as others are repeatedly hastled and joked with. (Jokes galore run amock with this group.) I am told that the owner (who is sleeping in the back room) wants his espresso, dolce and Sambuco shot now. I can sense I am being 'punk'ed' but have little words to combat the situation. So I load up my tray, acting none the wiser, and head to the back room. Stefano is lying down with sleepy eyes. I tell him in Italian that Antonio insisted he have his coffee now, adding 'ecco qua.' I hear uproarious laughter in the background as Stefano says...'No... no... no grazie. I sleep now.' Good that was relatively painless, I think, while exiting. Now maybe my time being 'the joke' is over. And fortunately it is as we soon start to get busy with patrons.

Time for another smoke break for many (there are several of these it seems) and the rain falls in sheets outside. I join Angelino at the door to beckon potential customers in. He is suprised by my willing, outgoing nature, he says with strangers. I tell him I'm used to sales but I don't think he quite understands what I'm trying to say.

People begin arriving steadily around 8pm. (The Italians eat dinner, typically, much later.) By 9am we are booming and I am happy to be finally hustling not sipping wine and reading the paper. The cooks teach me how to carry three hot and heavy plates at one time. I am nervous I will spill everything but they load me up and shout me out the door. 'Via! Via!' they say. (get going!) I pretend I have a book on my head, walking calmly and slowly but not obviously so... and vow to not drop anything. 'Ecco qua,' I say as I reach my destination in relief.

I watch Antonio make pizza after pizza, help Angelino get the customary bread to his tables, hustle dishes back to the kitchen for Evano and Salvatore and talk drama with Attore, Stefano. We all watch calcio on the TV and comment on the game throughout the evening. Evano is quick to place himself as the waiter of all women's tables while Angelino and Salvatore are more serious in working hard. I help bartend at one point learning that beer needs to have 3inches of foam at the top or it is not served at this establishment. I think this is a cool trick and like learning how to do it. I also think the beer looks better with the three fingers rule so I make sure my beers are adequately made. In America however, it seems we complain about too much foam. When in Rome...

Angelino shows me the finer products that go out to tables while we snack on these cheeses, sausages, olives, desserts. It's been a good experience and the time has flown. As the last stray patrons pay their bills, I put on my running shoes and more comfortable clothes and head out the door as I hear the men talking about who is going to be my 'companion' (they say) for the evening and take me home. While picking up speed to the door I wish all a, 'Ciao e Buona sera' and head home happy for the fresh air, exercise and alone time.

Yesterday was my grandmother's 102 birthday!!! Having grown up in Rio de Janeiro she is a pistol full of vigor even to this day. A true Carioca. Buon Compleanno La Mia Nonna!

Ti Amo Tanti!!

Ciao tutti! A domani!

Delicato

I was born in Napoli on December 7, 1598 and departed this life in Rome on November 28, 1680. During my time here I was most known for my painting and sculpting abilities. My father was also an artist and our name has gone down in history. I had a greatness of talent and enjoyed instant fame. My most notable works included the Baldacchino di San Pietro, Piazza San Pietro, Davide (Museo Borghese), Fountain of Four Rivers (Piazza Navona), Triton Fountain (Piazza Barberini), Apollo and Daphne & Pluto and Proserpina (Museo Borghese). In pictures I have an unassuming look, a gentle, delicate, humble demeanor it would seem. My works, even viewed up close, look life-like.

If anyone on this planet was to find their niche in life and do the most with the talent they were given, it was GianLorenzo Bernini. (JohnLawrence Bernini) Some of his sculptures, I recently saw, at the Borghese Museum and like Michelangelo before him these works manage to take your breath. Expressions, fingers gripping flesh, limbs transforming into leaves, motion found in marble. It's all there and it is fascinating!

Everytime I have gone to the Borghese Museum they have been sold out. (I have been three times) The first time I bought a ticket for the next morning. I was running late and missed that opportunity. The next time, again the museum was sold out. The third time I knew exactly what I was going to say in Italian and didn't pause or stumble with my phrasing when inquiring about a ticket. I was determined to get in. Ironically, the desk offered me a ticket for the next available time which was one hour from then. With anticipation I purchased my ticket and headed to the gift shop. I bought a poster of Bernini who now blankets my wall in my flat. This is a self portrait he did, oil on canvas.

Sometimes I think his expression in this painting is saying- something shy and not confident. Other times he looks to be to be exhausted. Then some days the painting says to me - life was difficult. Other times it looks like he enjoyed the finer things. Certainly his contacts in this city of Rome and his celebrity like status would have opened many doors to the 'finer things in life.' But like Michelangleo who was said to be obsessed with his work spending tireless hours on his craft, forgetting even to remove his shoes, (thus his skin began growing into the leather) perhaps Bernini was also an obsessed overachiever. He certainly accomplish a lot in his life and this city is teeming with his incredible work.

I think today if we were to run into one another on the street. My assumption is that JohnLawrence would be quite gracious, as all Italians seem to be. I would naturally speak at the level of an infant explaining my appreciation of his talent, in Italian. And I believe he would humor me, thank me, and move on. As one ragazzo (beau) put it to me weeks ago...'Parlare con te e stanchezza, ma provo perche mi piace tu molto.' Translated this means: 'To talk with you is fatiguing but I try because I like you a lot.' After I got over the initial moment of learning that the word 'fatigue' was being used to describe spending time with me, the overall message I realized was one that was positive.

Which brings me to two points for today. 1. Go to the Borghese Museum of you haven't yet. Enjoy a long walk in the beautiful Borghese park on your way there. There is no finer park in the world, secondo me. (in my opinion) 2. Many Italian boys are spoiled and that's fun to watch. But my latest theory on the matter is perhaps, in turn, this creates problems when they are men. And why I seem to see so many women yelling at them on the streets. But I do so love watching them being spoiled when they are little. They seem to have the finest clothes, the upmost care, everything at their disposal. When I ask grown men if they were spoiled (because I can see it in their eyes now as adults as well as in photos of them as children) they are quick to answer...yes. Some even add that they are 'delicato' delicate men, now, because of it. Which makes me giggle as such a description. Signore Bernini looks as if he was forse 'delicato' anche.

And I think to myself, I wish I would have been spoiled...

(To those reading this who might think that I was. I then have to say, I have a different definition of being spoiled. It's the 'Italian spoiled' I would have loved basking in.) :)

Sto vivendo il mio sogno... (I am living my dream...)